Figleaves are falling in the thicket now
the torch-bound carpenter climbs a stool
a gash of lightning precipitates a vow
condemning a millennium, and the Fool
fiddles with insects that the birds dispense
to prove a lie or vindicate a nesting
but poison arrows do a drawing-board dance
while Saint Sebastian watches unprotesting.
Chapters of marriages are silent as churches
a harmony of incense purifies the air
worship is perfume to the dreamers’ urges
ten million blanknesses observe a square.
All across continents animals are queuing;
excuses are dying, whatever else they’re doing.